Behind the Shadows of the Soul II: The Best Foes
by Casualis
Summary: Completed... Implied Slash. They were friend once. Now, after years of contempt, the King of Mirkwood and the Lord of Imladris meet again. But are they ready to face each others?
1. Failure

**Behind the shadows of the soul  
****Part II: The best foes **

**

**  
Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000yahoo.fr )   
  
Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas (implied), Elrond/Thranduil (slight)

Rating: PG   
  
Warning: none   
  
Summary: They were friends once, but even the strongest feelings may die out one day.

Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. Unfortunately, I only sleep ten hours a day.

Author's notes: This is the second story in the BSS arc. I hope you will enjoy. Many many thanks to Dorothy for beta-reading.

* * *

_"I'm not ashamed. I have known love… I have known rejection... I'm not afraid to declare my feelings... Take trust for instance, or friendship... These are the important things in life. These are things that matter, that help you on your way. If you can't trust your friend, well what then? What then?"   
  
from The Shallow Grave _

* * *

  
The trees were whispering together, their voices soft and caressing, their leaves shaking and rustling according to the rhythm of the calm conversation between the old beings. They were the oldest souls of the ancient forest. Centuries had flowed over them, bearing joy and also sadness, leaving invisible scars in their memories. They had seen many people wandering through their woods. They had seen many races being born then disappearing. They had witnessed war and carnage, silent testifiers of the blood soaking their roots and of the bodies rotting upon the dusty ground. They had seen lovers seeking shelter from the rain under their foliage, they had heard their laughter and the wild beating of their hearts. They had seen children grow and adults die. They had watched and they had learned.   
  
They were part of the old forest that once had covered Arda, spreading from east to west, north to south, of which the golden mallorn of 'Lorien and dark beech and pine of Greenwood had once belonged. With the passing of time, the great forest had disappeared, leaving room for the new inhabitants that appeared on Arda. But even if the trees sometimes experienced the bitter taste of melancholy, they were wise enough to push the unwanted feeling aside, having learned well that everything was meant to fade. The only concern was to know when.Their discussion was calm and quiet. There was no need to hurry or to be tense. Trees were immortal and had all the time they wanted; the passing of days was nothing more than a mere blink of eye in their long lives.

Today, the high oaks, beeches and pines were speaking about the travellers walking through the forest. The group had not yet passed next to them, but the news of their arrival had been heard by the unseen ears of the patient beings, brought, at first, by the breath of the wind and the joyful thrill of little birds, then by the voices of their close fellows. It seemed the  
whole forest was awakening at the unexpected announcement of the group of visitors. The animals nesting in their branches seemed to be more alive, babbling and skipping between the high trees. Birds were singing, spreading the news of the joyous event through the air. All of nature seemed delighted.  
  
Firstborn were coming! This was a rare event, enough to make the whole forest sound as a young maiden waiting for her first lover. Impatient and agitated. Happy and excited.   
  
The oldest of the trees were able to remember distant times, when elves travelled from one realm to another through the forest, singing bewitching melodies, speaking with the trees bordering their path, walking and running with animals, greeting the wind caressing their fair features. But such times were no longer. Bit by bit, fewer and fewer elves had come to pass through the fading forest. Other beings had replaced them, and if trees were capable of such  
feelings, they would have said that they did not like them. They were unable to repel the newcomers, and could only watch helplessly as they travelled back and forth. These men did not speak their language and were indifferent to nature, using it to satisfy their own needs. They thanklessly took without asking what would have been gladly offered, and its anger was great.   
  
The most ancient of the forest beings was one of the most delighted. It had been truly a long time since he had spoken to a respectful and graceful child of nature and he had yearned to see one once more. His tortuous roots shuddered with eagerness. For one brief moment, he wished that he was not an imposing, rooted tree, and envied the wings of the birds flying amongst his dense foliage, free to go where they wished. He soon forgot this unexpected wish as an odd tingle in his buried roots caught his attention. He focused on the feeling to try to identify the strange sensation. His old soul, connected to the life-force of his surroundings, did not take long to realize the source of the sensation, and his leaves quivered in anticipation.

Elves were nearing.   
  
It was a pretty large party; twenty or thirty, maybe more, all mounted upon fierce and  
beautiful horses. But they were not simple elves.   
  
"Wood-elves" confirmed a little golden bird, perched upon the sturdiest of his branches, before taking flight through the forest to spread the unexpected information.   
  
"Wood-elves", the squirrels repeated excitedly, jumping from branch to branch, avoiding obstacles with fascinating agility and rising clouds of dust upon the ground.   
  
"Wood elves…" murmured the light rustling of the ancient soul's leaves, betraying his perplexity.   
  
This was strange. Wood elves had not left their realm nestled in the horizon for a very, very long time, millennia perhaps. Something must have happened to push them to travel. The old tree lightly shook his fresh green leaves, spreading the information to the other tall trees. Then, he waited patiently for the coming of the Firstborn. If he was lucky enough, they would halt next to him and he would be able to ask them a few questions about his cousins living in  
Greenwood. Wood elves were nice creatures indeed, always eager to speak with trees.   
  
Twenty-six they were. Twenty-six wood elves riding twenty-six magnificent horses, all of them equally beautiful in spite of the dirt soiling their pale features. Even if their eyes, fixed upon an invisible point far away, betrayed their weariness, each elf sat proudly upon his steed, back straight and head held high. They were truly a sight to behold. Proud and noble. Strong and wild. Worthy to be called the Fair Folk.   
  
They were advancing at an unhurried pace, as they had been riding for a long time now and began to feel the need to take a short rest. They remained alert, ready to react to whatever might befall them, shoulders imperceptibly tense, one hand clenched in their horses' manes, the other clenching the curved shape of their bows. They were riding through the forest, listening to the sounds reaching their keen ears, trying to pick up signs of any foe's activity. They were clothed in the green and brown fashion of Mirkwood, their long hair braided in the same manner typical of the warriors of the great forest: two little braids behind their delicately pointed ears and another, thicker, behind their head, preventing thus errant strands to fall in their eyes.   
  
Their skin seemed to be made of alabaster, its paleness enhanced by the dinginess of their clothing and, for some of them, the dark hair framing their beautiful faces. Mounted high upon tall horses, their slender frames might appear fragile, but appearances can be deceiving. They were strong and highly skilled elven warriors whose elegant features reflected the wisdom and experience acquired through millennia.   
  
They were riding still and silent. The only noise emanating from the large party was the regular pounding of the hooves upon the dry ground and the occasional snort of a horse. Nothing interrupted the soothing calmness of the forest. They focused their attention on their surroundings, the silence somewhat frightening, eliciting a tension that reverberated within the group. None broke the silence of the tense atmosphere as they continued onward, their senses alert for potential danger.

At their head rode a tall, golden-haired elf. He was clothed in the same fashion as the warriors behind him: green tunic, brown leggings, leather boots. His golden hair, even if looking brighter and silkier, was braided in the same simple way as his fellows. This elf was as beautiful as those following him, maybe even moreso, but the difference was not in the slight details. It would have been difficult to explain the source of such an impression. It might have been his way of sitting more straight and proud on the back of his sorrel stallion. It might have been his gaze, blue and limpid, which seemed to pierce the mysteries of the place. It might have been his air of unmatched regalness. Whatever it was, this golden being seemed different and, indeed, different he was, because this was King Thranduil of Mirkwood, son of Oropher, an elf feared and respected by many, loved by his people for his devotion and justice.   
  
His shining hair formed a shimmering halo around his stern face. His gaze did not flinch when a little golden bird grazed his shoulder before flying away. But his silent confidence was displayed for the benefit of his warriors, for what he truly felt was a far cry from composed countenance of his expression.

He headed toward the vale of Imladris, Lord Elrond's realm, a place he had sworn long ago  
nevermore to put a foot within its boundaries. Today, he was to break his promise. Willingly. Almost grateful to be allowed to do so.   
  
It was a rude blow to his pride to have to ask anything of the one whom he had long ago refused to call friend. To do so was to deny centuries of deep-rooted feelings of resentment, ignoring the tears and regret that had been borne upon the ashes of their failed relationship.   
  
It was defeating.   
  
Thranduil Oropherion did not like the bitter taste of defeat that dwelled in his mouth. He clenched his jaw as a wave of memories assailed him, enhancing the angular form of his face. Mercilessly, he pushed the memories aside, but it was not fast enough. For a brief moment, the laughter they had once shared resounded in his ears, followed by the harsh words they had exchanged. For the first time in a millennia, he allowed himself to ponder the possibility that things could have been different. But he also knew in this heart that he did not want to face Elrond Half-elven.  
  
Because he was afraid.   
  
Afraid of the past, and of the inevitable questions. He was frightened of the questioning that surely would follow their meeting, and of having to admit that he was not able to keep his kingdom safe on his own.  
  
"Failure" was screaming his mind.

"Failure"

If he had been able to return to Mirkwood, he would have done so, but he could not. If he had learned anything during the past years, it was that he was King of Mirkwood before being Thranduil Oropherion, and that his duty to his people prevailed over his owndesires. Mirkwood was in danger and needed all the help he could summon. His own pride was irrelevant. If he had to beg for Elrond's help, so be it.  
  
He could only hope that his former friend would not ask for more.

**TBC…**


	2. Nervousness

**Behind the shadows of the soul  
Part II: The best foes**

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000yahoo.fr )  
  
Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas (implied), Elrond/Thranduil (slight)

Rating: PG  
  
Warning: none  
  
Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. Unfortunately, I only sleep ten hours a day.

Author's notes: Thanks to Echo and Dorothy for beta-reading.

This is a new version - much longer- of chapter 2. The extension I made was too short to be considered as one chapter.

Someone asked me if they would see Legolas in this story. The answer is no. Nonetheless, I would advise reading next chapter as it concerns Elrohir's feelings about the Prince of Mirkwood.

Thanks to those who reviewed and thanks for being so patient.

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**Chapter 2****: Nervousness**

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Glorfindel was in his study, sitting on a comfortable armchair that was covered with a green silky drapery, usually forsaken in a dark corner of his vast office. His was truly an old seat, but he had always refused to replace it. As many elves his age, the Balrog-slayer was set in his routine. Awakening with the dawn, he would spend the early morning with the patrols before coming back to his study to attend his duty as seneschal of Imladris until time for the midday meal. After eating with Elrond, his children, Erestor and some other friends, he liked to read and relax before plunging into the piles of papers awaiting him.  
  
Today did not depart from this routine. Sitting in his old armchair, he was lost in a book, whose pages were yellowed by the passing of time. He liked the rough feeling of the fragile pages scratching the smooth skin of the tip of his long fingers. He appreciated the combination of the faint dusty odour emanating from the old paper and the musky scent of the hidebound cover. He was savouring the sight of the delicate curves of the old language, last remnants of a completed golden era. Glorfindel was unlike other ancient elves that lived in memories of their glorious past, and he did not reject his past as others did. Reading old narratives satisfied his need for history and his desire to remember.

But today was slightly different than most other days; Elrond's restless pacing in front of the large window interrupted the comforting silence he usually enjoyed.  
  
The usually dignified and composed Lord of Imladris was agitated, his hands clasped behind his back. He had entered his advisor's office a few minutes ago and had not spoken a word. Seeing that his old friend had decided to remain mute, Glorfindel resumed his reading and ignored the raven-haired Lord. But, even if the Lore Master did not utter a word, the constant rustling of his starched robes were filling the silence. The quiet scene continued until the blond seneschal, unable to concentrate on his reading as the sound was getting on his nerves, levelled his gaze and glared darkly at the raven-haired elf in his office. But Elrond did not seem to notice the glacial attention he was given and continued his pace, his eyes absently fixed upon an invisible point in front of him. Seeing that the other, Glorfindel had not noticed him returned to his book, trying to concentrate on the words and forget the presence of his friend. He couldn't. After a few minutes, he looked at the half-elf and sighed deeply before he spoke.  
  
"Elrond"  
  
Oblivious to his friend's warning the Lord of Imladris did not stop his pacing. Lost in what must have been disturbing thoughts, according to the deep frown marring his usually smooth features, Elrond had not heard the seneschal speak.  
  
"Elrond!"  
  
This time, Glorfindel shouted, revealing the irritation he felt. Startled by the display of anger, which was so unlike his friend, the dark-haired lord jumped his whole body tensing.  
Realizing the true nature of the threat, Elrond turned an accusatory gaze toward the seneschal, who returned the look with an air of pure innocence in his blue eyes. Had he not known the blond elf so long, the Lore Master would not have believed it was he who shouted his name. Glorfindel sat in an informal manner; one long, muscular leg draped across the arm of the chair while one hand rested upon the old book in his lap, his long silky hair framing his innocent face. The seneschal of Imladris was the true image of virginal candor.  
  
For a brief moment, they continued to stare at each other, clear blue eyes meeting dark gray without any shame or hint of apology. Elrond was the first to avert his gaze, as a hint of guilt shone in his eyes. Glorfindel's expression changed slightly and, as he abandoned his mask of innocence, he proposed in a soothing tone,  
  
"Why don't you take a seat, mellon-nin?" A short silence followed while the seneschal decided whether it was fitting to give an explanation. Glorfindel stroked his chin, allowing a finger to rest against his lips. Sighing, he redirected his attention to his book and muttered, "You get on my nerves when you act thus."  
  
As he had lowered his head, Glorfindel missed the very unlordly scowl that briefly adorned Elrond's features and made him appear many centuries younger than he truly was. In a way, he displayed a great likeness to his wild sons when, as mischievous elflings, they had been caught sneaking outside at night when they should have been sleeping peacefully in their comfortable beds. Realizing that Glorfindel was no longer paying him any attention, the mighty Lord of Imladris did as he was bidden. He sat upon the simple wooden chair by the window, but his mood did not change.  
  
His hands seemed to have acquired a life of their own as they were at first twisting in his lap, then roaming over the dry wood of the back of his chair. That over-activity did not go unnoticed by the golden-haired advisor who levelled once again his gaze toward Elrond. This time, he did not try to conceal his feelings. Exasperation shone in his eyes and was obvious in his voice when he spoke.  
  
"Elrond!"  
  
The raven-haired elf did not ignore the underlying warning in his friend's voice but levelled his gaze to the ceiling as he sighed. With all the ill will he felt, he asked, speaking slowly and with emphasis on the last word,  
  
"What have I done now?"  
  
The hand supporting Glorfindel's chin fell loudly upon the yellowed sheets of his book when he straightened himself in his armchair. As he brushed away an invisible dust upon his dark robe with a nonchalant gesture of the back of his hand, an awkward silence set in and Elrond shifted uncomfortably upon his chair. Then, judging he had indisposed the misbehaving lord, Glorfindel broke the heavy silence and, as he would have lectured a wayward elfling, the blond advisor addressed the Lord of Imladris,  
  
" He will not be here till the end of the day. I suggest you calm yourself and stop behaving as an immature elfling celebrating his begetting day!" Adopting a calmer tone, but unable to hide the smile from his voice, he continued his advice. "Don't be so nervous."

Hearing the hint of amusement in Glorfindel's tone, the Lore Master stilled himself and, looking as one who had been falsely accused, he gave his long-time friend a scandalized glare before exclaiming,  
  
"I am not nervous!"  
  
"You are" came the bold reply. Glorfindel had definitely abandoned any hope to continue his reading and was now openly staring at his friend, willing to impose his opinion. He tried to suppress the smile that was forming upon his lips, but failed miserably.  
  
"I'm not nervous", he repeated stubbornly.

But, like his seneschal, Elrond was unable to muffle the hint of laughter reverberating in his voice as he realized that Glorfindel was chastising him as he had once done with the twins. A long time ago, he had admired his friend's skill in that matter, not imagining that, one day, he would be on the receiving end.  
  
"You are", insisted the golden-haired elf, closing his book carefully and placing it on his large, cluttered desk. "Do not attempt to pretend otherwise", he added with a stern tone, indicating he would allow no contradiction. "I know you too well, Elrond Peredhel, and do not believe you".  
  
Unable to retain his austere mask a moment longer, Glorfindel burst into laughter, his beautiful voice echoing in the large office before fading. Wiping tears from his eyes, he stood and joined the lord of Imladris at the large window that overlooked the interior garden. He smiled inwardly as he heard Elrond's muffled sigh.  
  
"Too well for my own good"  
  
A hint of that smile lingered upon his lips while silence once again fell between them. It was not an awkward silence, but rather the silence that rose between two friends who had no need of words to understand each other. It was at the same time comfortable and comforting. Glorfindel looked at the gardens outside, which were empty as the sun was high and burning in the clear sky. He waited for his friend to speak of the burden plaguing his mind, for he knew Elrond needed to confide in someone.  
  
Elrond was a great elf-Lord, wise and strong, who had protected many people, offering them shelter when they needed it most. Being a famous warrior, he had forsaken his sword for the less bloody tools of a healer. He had built Imladris, one of the last havens on Arda, a place of peace and quiet, where every one that needed protection would find it. He was also one of the three elfin ring bearers. He had succeeded in many endeavours and failed in others. But, like every great person, Elrond was feeling strongly the weight of what he considered his failures. Even if Glorfindel did not agree with him, he knew that the end of his friendship with Thranduil was weighing strongly upon Elrond's heart and that he still felt the guilt not to have foreseen their falling out.  
  
The golden-haired seneschal let memories surface, images twirling in his mind, sounds of voices and laughter, sounds of tears andsobbing,colours of the past, shadows of the presentand uncertainties of the future. Glorfindel had not known Thranduil when he was still friendswith Elrond. He had not seen the friendship blossoming between those two souls. When he had come back from Mandos' Hall, the gap was already dug between them, like a painful blow in Elrond's heart.

He had not known the former Prince of Mirkwood before the affection between him and the current Lord of Imladris turned to hatred.

But, even if their relationship could be qualified now as more than tense, he had often heard his dark-haired friend speaking with an unexpected tenderness in his voice when the conversation came to the son of Oropher. Many times had he heard the tale of their short-lived friendship, how they had met and learned to appreciate each other in spite of their many differences? He had listened to how their mutual appreciation had quickly shifted to a fierce and trusting friendship, then to brotherhood. Glorfindel had learned to hear what had remained unspoken. Even if Elrond had always kept it secret, the blond seneschal had understood that Thranduil's friendship had somewhat relieved the pain in Elrond's heart, a pain born from Elros' death, and that he had brought him joy and light. Thranduil brought Elrondback to life. They had been friends for half a century,which was a mere blink of an eye to an elf. But that short time had marked Elrond forever, burning him to the core, filling his heart and his very soul. His friendship with Thranduil had been the purest and truest, a testament between two souls bared to each other. Many have wished to have such a friendship with another.  
Not all-beautiful stories have happy endings. What had seemed the strongest bond had faded quickly, as if consumed by its own intensity, leaving Elrond bitter and empty. That same bitterness was reawakened each time the former friends would meet.  
Elrond's voice pulled him out of his reverie, sounding weak and broken, far from his usual deep and imposing tone. Glorfindel did not miss the slight hesitation that marked the dark-haired Lord's voice, betraying his awkwardness,"I'm afraid of that meeting…"

Glorfindel chose not to acknowledge aloud his remark and to let Elrond gather his thoughts and his courage. The golden-haired elf did not move, still cautiously watching the gardens. It was not the first time such a scene was displayed in front of him and, by experience, he knew the Lord of Imladris needed to speak to spend the tension arising in each fibre of his body. Elrond's nervousness was palpable in the confines of the large office. Those scenes had repeated themselves each time the blond King of Lasgalen and the raven-haired Lord of the Vale had been to meet. It was somewhat odd to see the dignified and usually self-controlled Lord of Imladris reduced to a pile of agitated nerves, unsteady and shy. Glorfindel would have laughed if he had not known how challenging those encounters were for his friend. A ghost had visited everyone from the past and the Lore Master was no exception. Thranduil was only one of them, haunting him when a certain past was called back to life.

Time passing, Glorfindel had seen the meetings between them becoming more and more heated, the reproaches harsher, the words stabbing as sharpened weapons aimed skilfully thanks to the perfect knowledge they had of each other. The friendship that had once bound them had given them the power to tear each other to pieces. And, when they had finished, he had been there to collect the pieces.

It would have been easy to blame Thranduil. But the blond Elda's fair heart knew better than to do so. He was aware that Elrond should not be the only one to suffer that tearing hatred, that the King of Mirkwood's feeling should mirror the Lore Master's, that he should also feel resentment and guilt in his heart. Resentment and guilt not directed toward Elrond, but toward himself, making him bitter. Glorfindel knew because he had seen Elrond and his unceasing blame of himself. He understood that seeing each other should be a painful reminder of what both must have considered as a failure. Both of them too stubborn to seek answers of the other to the questions dwelling in their hearts for so long. And he also knew the more they refused to admit the mere existence of those unanswered questions, the more they suffered their awakenings and the more they hated each other. To hate was not so different from to love, after all.

"I don't know how I will manage to handle that new meeting"

The dark-haired elf did not look at his blond friend when he spoke, staring emptily at the white wall in front of him, the sound of his own voice alien to him. He felt so badly and it was so different for him to admit any hesitation. He had learnt that, as a leader, he should be strong for others, even when he did not feel so. Honestly, at that exact moment, he did not feel strong at all, but it was difficult for him to let go. At those thoughts, he chuckled cynically and, still sitting on his simple chair, he nervously combed his dark curls with his long fingers before passing an unsteady hand upon his brow to wipe at non-existent sweat. Sighing, he added:

"I don't know if I 'can' handle it another time…"

It was an admission and Glorfindel felt the despair hidden behind the words sending shivers the length of his spine. It was not an easy discussion. His own relationship with Elrond was not made of blunted hurting truths, but of soft admissions and confession.

"But you have accepted to meet him, haven't you?" asked the golden being, his voice somewhat neutral and impersonal, trying not to sound as if questioning his friend's decision.

"I did…" acknowledged Elrond in a whisper, sounding more desperate than ever, his gaze seeking for the first time Glorfindel's as if looking for any support. But, to the blond councillor, it also sounded like a plea for mercy, a prayer to not force him to purchase that investigation.

"So, why?"

That time, as he asked the practical question, Glorfindel managed to anchor his blue gaze onto his friend's. Blue eyes crossed dark ones in a silent exchange and understanding. The golden-haired advisor did not speak, waiting for Elrond to make the first move, giving him time to voice his thoughts.

Millennia spent in Arda or in Mandos' Halls had taught him well that rushing helped little and that patience was priceless. Elves had all the time they wanted, even if in certain situations, making fast decisions was essential. Thus, silence floated for several long seconds between them, during which Elrond seemed to retreat into himself. When the dark-haired Lord spoke, his voice was troubled, at discovering what he was saying. And Glorfindel would not be surprised if that were the case. The subject was still so sensitive that the Peredhel Lord avoided it whenever he could. It would also not surprise the blond elf if Elrond had not even asked himself why he had accepted to meet Thranduil, preferring to see only the tactical side of the problem: Shadows, Sauron, Armies, warriors. But not Thranduil. The King of Mirkwood, yes. But never his former friend, Thranduil Oropherion. So much easier.

"I still hope"

The answer half surprised Glorfindel. He knew Elrond more than he let it appear, and even if he told it often as a joke, it was also the truth. Glorfindel was a very perceptive elf and few things escaped his sight. But the answer was not quite the one he was seeking. Elrond had not opened himself completely. There was still something that he refused to let go, fearing to admit it. The blond seneschal stared at his friend, who was now looking intensively at his feet, a finger raised to his mouth, touching the slightly parted lips in a thoughtful attitude. Slowly and soothingly, the seneschal of Imladris asked Elrond another question. Glorfindel knew it was up to him to do something, that he could not let Elrond relive depressing memories. His friend had to admit the truth. If time had taught him the virtue of patience it had also taught him the merit of action and occasional brashness. He had to do something now.

"What did you hope for, Elrond?"

He smiled when he heard his voice. Instinctively, he had taken his teacher voice, the one he used to take with the twins when wishing to extract an answer they had not wanted to give.

The Lore Master blinked several times, as if to chase images in front of his eyes and raised his head to look at his blond friend. His eyes were foggy and slightly unfocused, not looking at Glorfindel but rather looking through him. He let escape a melodious chuckle that resounded in the room. There was an infinite sadness in that laughter that tightened Glorfindel's heart in his chest. He looked at those dark eyes and he thought that, for the first time in a long time, Elrond's eyes were reflecting the millennia he had spent upon Arda.

"Why? What? But you are full of questions today, mellon-nin?"

"Questions you're not eager to answer to, are you, Elrond?" Glorfindel replied instinctively sounding slightly prosecuting.

"Questions I do not know the answer to" corrected the dark haired Lord, his voice tired, the unmistakable undertone of sadness still present. Glorfindel decided to insist and bolder, he said, his tone begging his friend to understand his words:

"What did you hope for, Elrond? Don't lie to yourself, _saes_, mellon-nin. You may lie to me, but not to yourself…"

An odd smile appeared upon the Lord of Imladris' face and he seemed to lose himself in his thoughts once more. When he spoke again, his voice was no more than a mere whisper, inaudible for one that was not granted with keen elfin hearing. "Answers"

Slowly, he raised his head and spoke louder, his gaze recovering its usual limpidity and something looking like tears shone slightly in his tormented gray eyes. Words came quickly, surprisingly easy,"I want answers, mellon-nin… I want to know why. I want to know why, simply why…. I wish to know where we have made a mistake, when we have failed. I want to understand, Glorfindel…" He paused suddenly and passed a weary hand upon his eyes. Then, sighing, he followed more slowly,"All was perfect. And suddenly, all has changed and I still do not know why. I still do not have answers millennia after…"

Leaning back against his chair and overthrowing his head, he briefly closed his eyes before gazing at the ceiling and Glorfindel knew he was not truly seeing it. He decided to give some advice to Elrond. It was not in his power to make decisions for the Lore Master or to force him to do something he did not want to do. But Glorfindel was pleased to have Elrond calling him his friend and that simple appellation allowed him to say things others would not dare to utter or to suggest, "Tomorrow, you will see him. If I were you, I would ask him. He might have the answers you seek so desperately or be as tortured as you are…"

A broken snort interrupted him. "I doubt greatly of that…" said Elrond, sounding bitter, still looking up.

Ignoring the intervention, Glorfindel added even-tempered, trying to breathe some reason in the Lord of Imladris' mind, "It might be the last time you will ever see him. These are dark times for the Mirkwood's elves. It might be the last opportunity you would have to understand… The last time."

Approaching his desk, the blond Eldar captured his book and walked toward the wooden door. When he reached it and put his hand upon the doorknob, he paused and, instead of opening the heavy door, he turned upon his heels until he faced Elrond that had not stopped his solemn contemplation of the ceiling, "I will go and see Erestor. Think about what I have told you, mellon-nin…"

Then, the golden-haired advisor left the room, silently shutting the door behind him, leaving his friend alone with his memories.

**TBC...**


	3. Brothers

**Behind the shadows of the soul   
Part II: The best foes**

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000yahoo.fr )   
  
Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas (implied), Elrond/Thranduil (slight)

Rating: PG   
  
Warning: Slash  
  
Summary: They were friends once, but even the strongest feelings may die out one day.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

AN1: Thanks to Echo and Dinah for beta-reading.

AN2: To the person who left a 'review'. I might be sick, but at least, I am polite. If anyone disagree with what is written in this story, please heed the warnings. I'm not against criticism, pretty much the contrary. But this is slash, even if only implied. If you don't like it, don't read it. I think it's an easy deal...

No, with the new chapter...

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**Chapter 3: Brothers**

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The night was clear and beautiful, bathing the vale in its dark velvet sweetness. Silence would be enveloping the dell if were not the occasional rustling of the leaves of the trees or the discreet cracking of a branch somewhere, or any of those soft noises that gave to the night its whole unearthly dimension made of light and shadows, peace and danger.

"I began to get bored, muindor nîn"

Lying upon the soft grass, Elladan was staring in awe at the magnificent starry sky blessing his sight. Next to him was Elrohir, his head resting upon an improvised pillow made of his cloak. His hair was unbraided, wet from their previous bath in the close stream, spread upon the soft fabric, making a dark halo around his alabaster skin. For some seconds, neither of them spoke, both of them enjoying the mere presence of the other and the soothing peace of the place.

They were lying upon the grass of a clearing that had been their shelter since their early childhood. Chance had enabled them to find that little secluded clearing while they were playing in the forest bordering the vale. No need to say they were not allowed to go so far away from the house but, as elflings, they had had the nasty habit of forgetting what they were supposed to do and behaving exactly as they should not. They had immediately fallen in love with the small place bordered by high and flexible trees, whose foliage offered a welcomed cover to escape the burning heat of warm and sunny summer days. There was something in the small clearing that had never stopped to attract and amaze them. It might have been that the grass seemed greener and more comfortable there than anywhere else in the vale. It might have been the way Anor blessed the place with her golden rays filtering through the leaves of the trees. It might have been because the songs of the birds that appeared more vivid and more joyous. It might have been because of all of that, but neither of the twins had ever thought about it, letting the place keep its secret, its magic. Few knew about that place. Lindir and Glorfindel were the only ones to have found out about their secret. Lindir, because, as their closest friend, he had the privilege of being introduced to the clearing and Glorfindel because their old tutor had tracked them here one day when they had sneaked out instead of attending their lessons.

After pondering his brother's lament, Elrohir could not help smiling, a luminous and beautiful smile that brightened his fair features. Without looking at Elladan, he teased:

"Is this the same Elladan that, three weeks ago, was so eager to come back home to be able to take a proper bath and to seduce the beautiful Illisse?"

Elladan let escape a faint outraged hiss and, leaning upon his elbow, the elder twin poked his brother in the ribs to get even. The younger twin couldn't suppress his laughter when he looked upon his brother's deadly serious expression:

"Be serious for a moment, saes, Elrohir…" the elder twin scolded, frowning at his brother's joyous laughter that resounded in the little clearing, rising to greet the top of the high trees.

Hearing his twin's plea, Elrond's younger son tried to calm himself but it took him several moments before he was able to face his mirrored image, his features calm and smooth, his head supported by his hand, looking as innocent as any new born babe, plunging his deep gray eyes in his brother's. When he spoke, his voice did not belie the seriousness of his face:

"I'm serious, Elladan. I do not understand you, that's all…" He paused, smiling softly at his twin's expression before adding: "You are so restless, muindor-nîn. No matter where you are, you still wish to be elsewhere..."

Elladan stared for some seconds at the beautiful one looking at him with those bottomless shining eyes. He could not fathom how people could not see the differences between them. Elrohir was the more thoughtful while he was the more spontaneous, and those differences were written in their eyes, on their features: something in the sparkling light of their pupils, something in the decided line of their jaw… Something to which people did not pay a lot of attention, but that was present and everlasting. A wave of tenderness crashed over him as he tried to memorize forever his twin's image looking at him in that fashion. People thought him to be the more inclined to danger, but he was not sure who the worse of them was. He might act carefree sometimes, but Elrohir was always aiming at a higher level when he decided to do something.

"I do not understand you…" He heard again Elrohir's voice and he smiled inwardly as he assessed the falsity of those words. No one knew him so well than his beloved brother. Both of them were well aware of their unique bond. Elrohir was only uttering a pious lie.

"Are you sure you do not know what I feel, Elrohir?" he insisted, never breaking the eye contact with his brother, letting his interior smile surface in his tone.

Elrohir sighed and remained silent, not wanting to recognize that his twin was right. But, under Elladan's close scrutiny, he felt that he had to tell the truth.

"Well, maybe I do…" he acknowledged with a sad smile and a slight shrugging of his shoulders, combing his long dark hair with his free hand, grimacing as he encountered a knot.

Something as a hint of victory graced Elladan's smile, but it disappeared soon, as his eyes took a thoughtful shade. The older twin let himself fall down upon his back, gazing silently at the sparkling stars in the sky, lingering slightly upon the most shining of them, Eärendil, his grandfather's light. He let the nocturnal sounds about soothe his wounded soul, aware of his brother's loving and caring gaze upon him, taking comfort and strength in it. Elrohir waited for him to speak, but he knew better than urging him. Finally, the elder twin decided to voice his thoughts, his voice fluid, but holding an infinite sadness.

"You know, when we are there, hunting orcs, fighting and killing, I wish only one thing. That I could stop that carnage and go back home… Home where I could claim my innocence back, where I could think of her when she was walking through the gardens, laughing, happy, alive… Not as when we found her…"

Elladan's voice shivered slightly when he uttered the last few words. He did not have to precise about whom he was referring. Elrohir knew and Elladan was aware that the same kind of emotions was displayed in his brother's mind, leaving behind a trail of despair and incompletion.

"But when I come here, it's worse, Elrohir…"

His beautiful gray eyes were full of tears when he sought the younger twin's gaze. Whispering, he repeated:

"It's worse…"

An eternity of pain those years had not been able to heal passed through those simple words and Elrohir felt the tears gathering in his own eyes as the pain was also alive in his heart. But, if Elladan was aware of his brother's pain, he did naught to soothe him. Instead, he continued, needing to unburden his heart:

"It is worse because she is not here. They are the same gardens… The same house… The same roses… But she's not here. And it's worse knowing she will never be here again…"

The tears that Elladan had tried to contain were now running freely the length of his pale cheeks and Elrohir, who was now sitting, stretched a soothing hand to wipe the crystalline liquid away. He repelled a rebellious strand of hair that was hanging in front of his brother's foggy eyes. Before he could take his hand away, Elladan captured it and kissed lightly his knuckles. A new wave of sorrow crashed upon Elrohir as the brief contact opened a bridge between their emotions. Instinctively, he took his brother in his arms and hugged him tight, whispering senseless words of comfort, unaware of his own tears running down his fair features.

They hold each other for a long time, letting the touch of Ithil quiet their angst and fears, clinging at each other as drowning, thanking wordlessly Elbereth for having each other as a support to lean on. When their sobs quieted, they did not let go each other and remained enfolded in the familiar and comforting embrace.

Breathing deeply his brother's scent, so alike his own, Elladan told, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"I think it might be time to leave, muindor-nîn…"

With a simple nod, Elrohir acknowledged his brother's wish, knowing well that it would useless to protest against a need he would soon feel himself. Stroking Elladan's back, his chin resting upon the dark curls of his brother, he suggested:

"Perhaps Ada will let us go to Mirkwood with the others…"

The elder twin smiled softly, feeling what his brother did not say yet:

"Perhaps… But he will not be pleased at all". He did not speak for a few seconds then he added: "It's said that the Shadow is very present in Mirkwood. It may be truly dangerous to go there…"

A hint of amusement was present in Elrohir's voice when he teased:

"Since when did danger repel you?"

Elladan did not answer that question that was not truly one. Instead, he said:

"You might see him there…"

As they were still so close, Elladan was able to feel the sudden tension in his twin's body and he laughed softly:

"Do you think I would not know you still think of him?" Raising with a long finger his brother's lowered chin to cross his gaze.

A modest smile graced Elrohir's features and he said, trying to joke, but failing as a slight blush coloured his cheeks and his ears:

"You still know me better than I …"

They did not speak for a moment and, absently, Elrohir began to stroke his brother's back with circular motion, feeling the tense muscle relaxing under his touch. Then, he tried to explain, leaving long silences between his words:

"I don't know why he is still in my thoughts… I do not know him, I only know that he is the son of Thranduil… But there is something in his eyes that bewitches me… I can't say I'm in love with him, but I want to know him… I want to understand him… "

For another long moment, no words disturbed the two brother's tender embrace. Then, Elladan disentangled his long fingers from his twin's hair and stroked flushed skin of Elrohir's cheek before saying:

"Do not try to hide things from me, Elrohir. Whatever you might think, tell me, I will understand. I don't know what I would be without you. I'm not sure I would still deserve to be called an elf…"

Then, he nuzzled again his dark head against his brother's shoulder, letting the night envelop them under the careful gaze of Ithil.

**TBC...**


	4. Friends and Foes

**Behind the Shadows of the Soul   
Part II: The best foes**

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000yahoo.fr )   
  
Website: www.thecrystal.cjb.net  
  
Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas (implied), Elrond/Thranduil (slight)   
  
Rating: PG   
  
Warning: very slight slash  
  
Summary: They were friends once, but even the strongest feelings may die out one day.   
  
Disclaimer: Just toying with the little elves.

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**Chapter 4: Friends and Foes**

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They were alone in the large office dedicated to the meeting, facing each other in a tense and stubborn stillness, avoiding each other's gaze. Maps of Arda were spread upon the large table in he center of the room and both of them tried to seem interested in the rare scrolls left next to them. That painful silence had arisen the very moment Glorfindel, Erestor and two of Thranduil's councillors had left them alone after spending long hours discussing about the disturbing reawakening of Sauron's power in Mirkwood and the weakening of the Wood-elves' defenses. When the debate had ended, as it was required by the protocol, the councillors had left the room so that it enabled Thranduil and Elrond to take decisions. But they had not exchanged a word, referring to stare blindly either at the maps or at the trail of odorous food a pretty red-haired ervant had brought a moment ago.  
  
Recalling the conversation he had shared with Glorfindel a day ago and the piercing gaze the lond advisor had given him when he raised from his seat, Elrond sought desperately words that ould not sound harsh or disdainful. But, before he found them, he was outstripped by the King of Mirkwood, who had decide one of them should say something before he went mad. Taking a eep breath, the blond elf tried to sound detached from his words, as if discussing of any matter of little importance, "Well… Have you made a decision?"  
  
Elrond jumped imperceptibly, as he did not think the blond elf would speak, least of all, would be as direct. He looked at the tall elf, who was staring at him with huge blue eyes and stroking mechanically the smooth wooden table with his long fingers. He returned the gaze, biting slightly his soft bottom lip and replied with no hint of teasing in his voice, choosing to acknowledge simply the truth, "I'm not sure yet, Thranduil Oropherion…"  
  
The Sindarin elf stared for some extra seconds at his former friend, trying to discern whether he was serious or not. Seeing that it was indeed no joke, he let escape a bitter chuckle and stretched an alabaster hand toward the crystal carafe filled with golden wine to pour him a glass. Thoughtful, he held the delicate recipient aloft, twirling the translucent liquid in it. Then, he levelled his gaze, crossing Elrond's stare, eyes slightly narrowed, nostrils flared and a ghost of cynical smile upon his fair features and asked, "You're not going to make that easier for me, are you?"  
  
"Have we ever made anything easy for each other in the past years, Thranduil?" replied Elrond, not taking time to think about what he said. He noticed, not without surprise that he had sounded somewhat as bitter as his interlocutor.   
  
Taking advantage of the pretense of peace between them, Elrond closely watched the blond King of Mirkwood, trying to find in his interlocutor's face explanations for that unexpected lull. It was said elves did not change and remained the same, indifferent of the inexorable passing of time. It might seem right to the human eye, which only noticed the grasp years had upon one's features, but the knowing gaze of another elf saw otherwise. Thranduil might appear as young as the first time he had met him or as the last time he had seen him, namely half and a millennia ago, but Elrond noticed the havocs of time in his former friend. Physically, the Sindarin elf was the same, still handsome and proud. His skin was as pale as alabaster, as smooth as marble, as soft as the best velvet. His nose spoke of nobility and valor. His face bore asserted angles characteristic of the Firstborn. His well-drawn jaw betrayed his strong temper and his high cheekbones enhanced the impression of wild will emanating from him. His chin was short and voluntary. In his face framed by his long and vaporous blond hair that was mastered by an intricate net of braids, his eyes, blue like the distant sea, were two bottomless pools of deep colour, and his lips, full and luscious, seemed two sweet fruits. His whole frame was still lithe and slender, full of a grace that concealed an unusual strength. The changes were not in his body that was claiming every inch of his pure elven lineage. They were subtler: in his eyes, in his pose or in his unusual quietness that might be in fact weariness. Thranduil seemed tired and wry, as if he had lost the last of his hope. And somewhere, it frightened the Loremaster, as he had never seen the blond Sinda lose his pugnacious rage.   
  
Elrond was destabilised: that encounter was not what he had expected. It was different than others they had ever had. Less tensed, less aggressive… More serene… And, somehow, it was more dreadful: it was exactly the kind of quietness falling upon a devastated battlefield once the final blow had been delivered and each side was counting their dead. It was a defeating quietness, full of resignation and empty of any fierce will. Briefly, Elrond wondered if his imagination was tricking him or it was truly the case.  
  
Feeling himself under close scrutiny, the son of Oropher raised his glass to his lips, trying to disguise his discomfort, enumerating silently all the reasons why he should not have come. He did not drink, even if his dried throat was reclaiming his attention. At that exact moment, he did not trust his stomach anymore, and he preferred glancing toward the half-Elf, seeking to read his thoughts. He watched closely Elrond's unreadable face, whose dark mane was giving him a more somber expression. Even if he did not like to admit it, the piercing gaze fixed upon him make him ill at ease and he was struggling not to show it. Showing his uneasiness would mean showing that blasted elf had yet some affects on him. And that was not the case, wasn't it?   
  
For what seemed an eternity, but did not lost last more than a minute, they kept on staring at each other, assessing themselves, each of them judging his foe. Then, an ironical smile, that looked more like a grimace, distorted his lips and he acknowledged, "Point taken, Peredhel…" Then, he added, his tone willingly disdainful: "But I'm not surprised… You have always had a twisted mind. Surely your human blood…"  
  
The dark-haired Lord gritted his teeth forcefully, fighting against the need to answer Thranduil in the same way. But he should not, as that kind of behaviour would lead them to a deadlock as ever. Leaning against the back of his chair and sighing, Elrond asked with a weary tone:  
  
"I have enough of that little game of yours, Thranduil. I have enough of that situation. It had lasted for too long… Can't we have a civilized conversation for once?" Something looking like melancholia surfaced in his voice when he added softly, "We were friends once… Can't we at last face each other without getting on each other's nerves?"   
  
The King of Mirkwood let his untouched glass fall down upon the table with a thud, oblivious of the numerous rare maps threatened ruin by his gesture. His hand clenched into a fist, betraying his state of mind and he hissed, more than he said, "Do not recall the past, Peredhel... What had been will never be again, so why do you want to call back memories that belonged to the ghosts? We're not here to speak of us… My realm is assaulted, my subjects are doomed to leave the forest to end as food for stinking orcs. I have no time to discuss of that interesting matter. If you agree, we will concentrate upon the object of my… visit here"   
  
His voice rose of some octaves and the Loremaster recognized the suggestive signs of one of the legendary Oropher's storms. Thranduil had always been a quick-tempered elf, especially when it came to him. Elrond himself had been on the receiving end many times- too many times for his own taste- and knew from experience those storms were violent, but short lived if one did not answer the angered elf. But today was not a day for such exhibition of temper and the dark-haired Lord decided to calm the King, whose eyes had darkened dangerously, taking the colour of the depths of the oceans. He raised a hand while saying, "Peace, Thranduil. You won't get anything you want if you keep on screaming as a slaughtered orc…"  
  
The blond Sindarin King seemed to react to the implied meaning of those words and quieted his voice, but impatience was still flaring in his voice when he followed,   
"My realm needs help, Elrond. Mirkwood needs protection, its inhabitants need protection. And I cannot protect them. A long time ago, I thought it would be possible for me to do so, but I know now I was mistaken. I have to turn toward someone else than myself and…" Thranduil took a large gulp of air as to sustain his voice and prevent its quivering. "And I would like that someone to be you, Elrond Peredhel…"  
  
The dark-haired Lord did not say anything, still upon his chair, staring at the other elf, asking for his help while they had departed so long ago on the promise of never needing each other again, on the promise of never being lulled by the mirage of friendship again. The questions he wanted were there, but could not leave his lips. Seeing that his former friend was staring at him without answering, Thranduil let escape a snarl and he exclaimed, bitterly, "I should have known, shouldn't I, Peredhel? You won't help my people, will you? May I ask why you have given my son some hope that you deny him thereafter?"  
  
Attacked on the matter of his own honour, Elrond had no other choice than to reply, more harshly than intended, "I said I would help your people, Oropherion, and I will do so. Never doubt my word! I never spoke lightly." His sentence ended on somewhat looking like a feral growl.   
  
Elrond watched as the blond King of Mirkwood got up unexpectedly in a twirling of his richly decorated ceremonial robes and stood in front of him, clenching in his hand the hard wood of his seat, so strongly that his knuckles whitened. The blond Kind of Mirkwood's face did not show any signs of emotions and for some illusive seconds, it seemed to the dark-haired Lord that he was sent back a month ago when a young elf looking very much like that one had stood proud and unreadable in front of him. But Thranduil's stillness did not remain for long. His whole composure seemed made of ice and Elrond realized he had never met that side of his former friend. Suddenly, it seemed the temperature of the room had decreased drastically and the Loremaster felt a shudder running the length of his spine. Truth struck him: even if he had known it, he had never fully realized that Thranduil had become a perfect stranger to him. And somewhere, it hurt him. There was nothing left of the joy of life, of the warmth that had been part of the former Prince of Mirkwood. They had vanished, leaving the blond King of Mirkwood like a cold and frightening creature. With every inch of his being, Elrond felt the strength and the regalness of the elf standing close to him, and he also felt the suffering hidden behind it. Suffering that was covered with many layers of ice, but that Elrond was able to see. It was a chilling impression, as cold as the eyes staring at him. Lost in those thoughts, he did not see the bottomless blue eyes narrowed slightly, and it was the Sindarin elf's voice that pulled him out of his contemplation, "Always? Are you sure of that, Elrond? I seem to recall at least one time when you did not keep your word…"  
  
"What do you mean, Thranduil?"   
  
Elrond's voice had snapped as he also got up, not wanting the blond Elven King to feel as if he dominated him. His robes rustled when he moved, echoing the threatening words. Both elves faced each other on each side of the table, their eyes hard and impermeable. They were a sight to behold, both of them tall and noble, their regalness enhanced by the heavy formality of their clothes. Elrond was a bit shorter and slightly larger than Thranduil, but that took naught away from his presence in that silent face to face. In the space of a few words, the peaceful lull between the two rulers had become a tense contest of wills. The air was heavy and it seemed for some seconds that, outside, the birds had stopped their singing. They did not speak, each of them seeking the breach in the other. But, then, the tension broke suddenly, as the Sindarin elf averted slightly his stare, sighing deeply, "Forget my words, Peredhel… They were spoken out of mind…"  
  
But Elrond refused to let it go and he said it aloud, neither his voice nor his gaze quivering, "No, Oropherion. You won't dodge it like that. What do you mean?" In front of the stubborn silence that met his question, he insisted, plunging his dark gaze in Thranduil's. "What do you mean?"  
  
But, still refusing to answer Elrond's request and cursing himself inwardly for bringing back the subject he wanted to avoid the most, the King of Mirkwood only shook his golden head, his blond mane catching the very light of Anar when he did so. But the Loremaster refused to accept that situation. Seeing he would obtain naught if he attacked directly, he decided to skew and stated with a disdainful intonation that Thranduil would not miss to notice, "That's well what I thought... You were lying, son of Oropher…"  
  
The dark-haired Lord had tried to provoke the other's anger and had fully succeeded. The ice had melted under the warmth of the fierce fire burning in the King of Mirkwood. He hit violently the table with his fist, not caring if the glasses and the crystal carafe might spill their content on the maps. "I am a liar?" he inquired, his voice no more than a low feral growl. "And what are you then? If I'm not mistaken, it was you, who said you would be always there when I would need you. And yet, it was you who left when he came…"  
  
Elrond was taken aback by that surprising declaration. He had no clue about whom Thranduil was speaking about. He was left speechless and could not find immediately the words to reply. Instead, he stared widely at the Elven king with disbelieving eyes. Thranduil's hand was still clenched into a fist upon the table and he was panting heavily, his chest rising in deep motions. His eyes were shining and an emotion Elrond was not able to determine flickered in them. After some extra seconds, he found his voice again, "Whom are you talking about?"   
  
Elrond's voice reflected the disbelief he was experiencing and he enhanced his question by a most unlordly furrowing of his nose and brow. The only answer he received was a short snort from Thranduil before the blond Sindar turned upon his heels to go and watch the distant landscape by the opened window. The meeting was held in one of the rooms standing in the heights of the manor and a marvellous view of the vale, illuminated by the bright light of the day might be seen. But Thranduil did not care of the view, other matters were plaguing his mind, as unbidden images of the past came twirling in his already agitated mind. Years of despair alternating with years of joy. Years spent wearing a mask that only slipped in the secret of the night when he purged his darkened soul with his tears. Centuries during which he had repressed memories, pretending naught had ever happened. Millennia during which he had refused to speak of the past. Years that came back to him now with their full strength and power of destruction.   
  
"Thranduil, for the last time, saes, whom are you talking about?"   
  
Exasperation flared anew in the Half-Elf. He hated being the toy of his own emotions, but, now, he could not help it. He did not understand what the blond Sinda was talking about and it angered him a lot that he refused to explain his words. Betraying his state of mind, he drummed his fingers on the table while watching closely the lithe frame of his former friend, noticing the visible stiffness in his shoulders. Slowly Thranduil turned again toward Elrond and told, refusing to capitulate and clearly expressing it, "I do not want to discuss that now, Elrond! Is it so difficult to understand?"  
  
The dark-haired Lord refused to acknowledge that last refusal. Too much had been said… Or not enough. He would not bear another kind of that scene once more. They could not remain thus. He hated to admit it, as he made him feel as he was millennia ago, young and brash, but he had reached the end of his patience. He wanted to know and he refused to have that stubborn King of Mirkwood opposing him in his defiance. Taking a deep breath, but unable to master his impatience anymore, he spoke and regretted his words at the very moment he uttered them, "I'm not sure I am ready to conclude an alliance with somebody who treats me like a foe, rather than like an ally…"  
  
That was a despicable attack, unworthy of the noble elf he was supposed to be, and, even if Thranduil did not voice his opinion, he made sure his eyes spoke for him. Again, nothing moved in the place and time seemed to hang from his stream before the golden-haired Sindar's nostrils narrowed in disgust. Then, pushing aside a braid threatening to bother his sight, the King of Mirkwood laughed bitterly.  
  
"How noble of you, Elrond Peredhel! I was aware you had many faults, but I did not know you had the mentality of an orc" he spat, his lips distorted by anger, his eyes glaring darkly at the other elf.  
  
But Elrond refused to let himself be intimated. He was not proud of himself, far from it, but he had gone too far to back down now. And he knew that, even if Thranduil had many flaws, he was above all a good ruler, who would never put the well being of his people behind his own. But the Loremaster had no time to follow such thoughts, as the golden-haired King seemed to walk toward him, never breaking eye contact, still majestic in his burning anger, his voice looking like many snakes crawling in the air.   
  
"You want a clue, Peredhel? I will give it to you! Do not tell me you do not recall him, you were always speaking of him, always telling how wonderful he was, how beautiful, how brave… You had only eyes for him and, yet, he never looked at you, he never acknowledged you… Yet, he did it one day. And that day, you were so happy that you forget everything, everyone that had cared for you… And you left."  
  
Word after word, the tension perceptible in the blond elf's voice increased until it quivered, the sound barely passing the barrier of the clenched jaw. His the last syllable died out, Thranduil stopped his advance, his body tall and straight, seeming to defy the dark-haired Lord, his blue gaze still plunged in the Loremaster's. He repeated, leaving a short pause between the words, articulating extremely, making the sounds slide on his tongue as it brushed his palate, "You… Left…"  
  
And with a steady hand, he reached the back off his chair. Pulling the seat toward him, he sat, never wavering, never swaying, his arms crossed upon his firm chest, breathing deeply as to calm himself.   
  
And, suddenly, Elrond was sent back millennia ago and knew, as images of old fights and ancient arguments came to his minds. A single name passed his lips as he closed his eyes, looking more like a whisper, "Gil-Galad…"  
  
"Gil-Galad…"  
  
"Aie", acknowledged the sitting elf, his gaze fixed upon the white wall on his left, avoiding crossing Elrond's eyes. Then, he added after a brief silence: "Always Gil-Galad…"   
  
And he snorted once more, but more than a lone feeling was expressed in that sound. Pain and disdain. Tears and contempt. Suffering. Hate. Resentment. Elrond felt at loss when he heard that whole range of emotions.   
  
Ereinion Gil-Galad, the one he had silently admired for years without earning more than occasional glances, as he had been no more than a child in the eye of the High King. He had told Thranduil of his admiration, hoping that his friend would understand. But the blond Prince of Mirkwood had not, manifesting his annoyance whenever he had introduced the subject. The young elf he had been thus had not given much more attention to his friend's reaction, imputing it to the evident disagreement between Oropher and the High King.  
  
Gil-Galad… So bright and beautiful, as a shining star fallen upon Arda… He would have done anything for him, he would have followed him anywhere. But, as much as it grieved him to acknowledge it, Gil-Galad had been the hidden fissure in his relationship with Thranduil, underlying but always present. He only realized it now, as he heard the resentment flaring in the golden-haired elf's voice and, suddenly, Elrond felt very tired, as drained of his whole strength. Slowly, he sat and watched the other elf's profile, which was resolutely turned toward the wall. He rested his elbows on the table, his fingers twinned together. Frustration seized him and he buried his head in his hands before sighing deeply.  
  
A shadow flickered ephemerally, catching his eye, drawing his attention toward the opened window. But, from his place, he only saw the ethereal beauty of the blue sky, which was not soiled by the presence of any cloud. For some seconds, he let himself be locked in that pure ocean, fighting against the need to close his eyes and to forget the meeting and Thranduil. But, gathering his will, he tore himself from his silent contemplation and concentrate upon the blond King, "Why do I have the impression we ever had that conversation?"   
  
Elrond knew his weariness would not go unnoticed by his interlocutor, but he did not mind. He was tired, simply tired of a past he did not always understand. But only silence welcomed his question, as instead of answering, Thranduil captured his still full glass of wine and emptied it. Then, the blond ruler's voice resounded in the vast office, less agitated, somewhat resigned, "Maybe because we did have this conversation before…"  
  
Thranduil looked once more at his glass, almost surprised to discover the emptiness of the delicate container. He knew what he had dreaded was nearing and he could by no way stop it. 'No one can always avoid the past', he thought, staring emptily at the reflections of the crystal. 'One can run away from it, but, at the end, it's always there…' And suddenly, he wished he would be able to get intoxicated.   
  
The dark-haired lord did not miss the sudden change of tone in Thranduil's voice, but he was still not able to understand its nature. His inability to define those feelings frustrated him and he let his emotions be shown when he asked, cynical, "And you find it comfortable?"  
  
The subtle underlying meaning of the question did not go unnoticed by the King of Mirkwood, who abandoned the tense observation of the object in his long-fingered hand to cross Elrond's stare. The golden-haired elf looked for some seconds in the other's eyes, trying to discern whether he should tell everything he thought… And he chose to do so. He had no clue why he had taken that decision, when he had tried to avoid it for so long. Why now? Why him? He had no answers to give… Except, perhaps, that it was time to turn the page… Transferring his glass from his right hand to his left, he massaged slowly the tense muscles of his neck while saying with a neutral voice, taking his time to answer, seeking his words, never avoiding the inquisitive gaze of the raven-haired elf, "I find it exasperating… I find it saddening…. I find it horrible and weak... But I certainly do not find it comforting…"  
  
Elrond was struck by the simple acceptance one might hear in those words. But the particular inflection Thranduil had given to one of them caught his attention and he could not help asking with ulterior motive, "Weak? What do you mean?"  
  
A stifled laughter answered his question and he frowned, ready to ask what Thranduil found so amusing in his question. But he had no time to do so, as the blond elf turned himself toward him, facing him. The blond King of Mirkwood remained silent for some times, trying to find the words that would explain something he was feeling, something he had never voiced. Hesitantly, he began, "I am weak, Peredhel. That is why I find it horrible. I am weak when my people need my strength to lean on, to cling on. For them, I'm a confident king, ruling a kingdom threatened by Shadow. They know I have sworn to protect them. They know it as I do." He paused briefly, biting slightly his bottom lip before moistening them with his tongue in a discreet motion. Then, he followed, his voice assured and strong, "They behold the image of myself I give. Image of strength and self-confidence. A monarch shall have no weakness, no failure. They wait for my strength and they do not know that if they look past the barrier they will find a weakness."  
  
He shook his head, creating a foggy golden halo around his fair face and he added, a sad smile on his well-drawn lips, "A weakness that had hampered me to rule my Kingdom as I should have done. Do you know that weakness had a name, Elrond Peredhel? It has the same as you…"  
  
After that revelation, the blond King of Mirkwood did not averted his gaze, preferring to watch the Loremaster as he pondered his speech. They had long passed the point of disguise, there was no place anymore for pretense of indifference and coldness. After some moments, Elrond replied, sounding slightly shocked, his eyes narrowed in incomprehension, "I never thought you considered what we shared as a weakness, Thranduil. For me, friendship is strength, something that helps you on your way… "Then, he added quickly with a motion of his hand to enhance his words, "Never a weakness…"  
  
And he leaned against the back of his chair, staring at his former friend, trying not to look too destabilized, but knowing he failed miserably. For his part, the Sindarin elf rested one of his elbows on the table and, taking a deep breath, he asked, knowing well what kind of reaction his question might raise, "Can we call what we shared a friendship?"  
  
A disbelieving silence welcomed his words, as Elrond stared blankly at him, unable to move. But Thranduil's words shocked him more than he let it appear. He knew they had made mistakes at some points of their relationships. He was aware of that fact. But, even when love had become hate, or something looking closely to hate, never had he denied what had been. They had been friends and their friendship had been true. Or, at least, it was what he had believed. But looking at Thranduil's calm and emotionless eyes made him doubt.   
  
He shook his head, refusing to listen more. A deep anger seized him and he did not try to conceal it when he spoke, as it melted with surprise, "How dare you call it otherwise? We were friends, we were brothers, we were… one… Until…"  
  
But he was unable to end his sentence. How would he be able? He did not know… Thranduil was well aware of the internal struggles agitating his former friend's mind. He, himself, had known that inward battle. But he did not let his momentary sensitivity have any influence upon his decision. Things had to be told, even if he destroyed forever the tender image Elrond had obviously kept of them.   
  
"Until what? Tell me, Elrond. Until what?" he attacked mercilessly before adding with something looking like a cruel smile on his lips, "Do not be shy, this is the long awaited moment of confessions…"  
  
He felt like a cat playing with a mouse. It was not charitable, but it was a sweet little revenge for the years he had spent cursing Elrond for his fate. After a brief pause, he opened once more his mouth to speak, but was cut off before he had the opportunity to utter the words, "I do not know when everything had changed…"   
  
The Lord of Imladris' voice had snapped, loud and exasperated, resounding strongly in the office. He sighed and knocked slightly on the edge of the wooden table with his curled forefinger. He hated losing his temper, but he had not been able to contain himself. At that very moment, he would have screamed his confusion.   
  
"Do you?"   
  
The King of Mirkwood's voice echoed softly the louder outburst of the Loremaster, holding an undeniable undertone of mock disbelief. Elrond sighed and rubbed his temples with a steady hand, containing his rising rage. But he could not prevent the slight quivering of his voice when he spoke through his clenched jaw, defying Thranduil with shining eyes, "So, tell me if you had the chance to understand…"  
  
And suddenly, all tension fell back, as the King of Mirkwood's mocking smile faded and as a thoughtful expression graced his smooth features without him breaking eye contact. Witnessing that change, Elrond could not prevent the death of his anger and the birth of puzzlement in his heart. He had never known Thranduil to be such a complex elf. He understood now that the golden-haired being had been manipulating him, leading him where he wished him to go. And renewed interest arose in him, as the Thranduil he had known was a foreseeable elf, looking naught like the one sitting in front of him. He wondered how one can alternate between ice and fire, softness and harshness, comprehension and cruelty…   
  
Ignoring the new light in the Lord of Imladris' eyes, the blond Elf lowered his gaze and stroke lightly the soft parchment of one of the numerous maps upon the table. He did not level his blue gaze when he answered Elrond's wish, "Until the masks we wore had fallen down… Until the fabric binding us was torn..."  
  
Only when the last of his words died did he cross again to the raven-haired Lord's astonished gaze, stopping the soft going to and fro of his hand upon the map. Elrond stared for some extra seconds, trying helplessly to make out the meaning of those enigmatic sentences and failing to do so. The dark-haired Lord passed a hand in his silky hair, tucking away a braid, seeking in the other's gaze the somber answer to that mystery. Then he admitted honestly, "I do not understand a word of what you're saying…"  
  
To his surprise, the Sindarin King did not answer immediately, but got up to pour some wine in both their glasses. Nothing was heard save for the harmonious sound of the golden liquid flowing. With a graceful motion, the tall blond elf stretched a filled glass toward his former friend. Elrond received it with a nod of his head, noticing the fluid steps of Thranduil when he joined his seat. As he readied himself to sit down, the King of Mirkwood informed, "You cannot understand… Because you have seen naught… Because you preferred to see naught."  
  
Once those words were spoken, he let himself fall gracefully on his seat and brought his glass to his lips under the Loremaster's piercing gaze. Elrond was taken aback, as he understood less and less where the blond King wanted to lead them. He forsook his wine after a brief glance toward the cool liquid, deciding he was not in a mood to enjoy his drink and voiced his incomprehension while putting his glass down, "Can't you stop speaking in riddles, please?"  
  
Thranduil was enjoying his wine, letting its freshness soothe his dried throat and allay his impassioned mind, tasting its fruity tunes. Hearing the Peredhel's remark awakened an old memory, sending him many years back. It seemed to him that a lovely laughter that he had not heard for a very long time cascaded again in his ears and he smiled at the beloved sound, his eyes lost for a brief second in the mist of the past. For that short moment, he saw again a sweet gaze shining brightly in a fair face framed by long dark unruly strands and he heard again a musical voice chastising him tenderly before the unexpected vision died out in front of his eyes. A soft smile lingered on his lips as he sipped another gulp of his wine. Then, he said dreamily, still slightly lost in the remnants of the image, "You know it is strange. That's exactly what she said… 'You are not clear with yourself when you think of him, how do you want others to understand you?' Then she would laugh… "  
  
Elrond watched, fascinated, the expression on Thranduil's features. He had never seen such a mixture of sadness, joy and utter love in his former friend's face. Somehow, it made him look much younger than he had looked minutes ago. Biting his lip as he hated to interrupt the magic of the moment and the peace bestowed upon the King of Mirkwood, he inquired, "Who?"  
  
But Thranduil did not lose the strange sparkle of light in his bottomless eyes when he turned his attention toward the Lord of Imladris. Taking another gulp in his glass before answering, the golden-haired elf wiped discreetly his lips with a long finger, "Menelwe…"  
  
And Elrond understood. Menelwe had been Thranduil's wife, a beautiful and intelligent she-elf, who had a great influence on the bad-tempered and stubborn King. The Loremaster had often admired how she had calmed her husband at the time of some councils and led him to accept some aspects of needed collaboration. She had died five centuries ago, killed in a trap committed by orcs. But he had no further time to think about the deceased Queen of Mirkwood, as Thranduil followed, his voice unusually soft, never staring directly at him as ashamed of his feelings, and looking as still lost in his memories, "She understood. She knew me better than I did myself. She was so wonderful…" His voice held an unmistakable sob and he paused to master its quivering: "You know… After… "He hesitated on the world to use: "Our end… She comforted me. As a friend…" A low chuckle escaped his lips, bearing an underlying note of wonder: "I never understood how I came to accept what she offered to me when I had sworn never to trust again… I think I needed to trust someone. Somewhere that was why I needed you…"  
  
Elrond stared disbelievingly at the golden-haired being, not trusting what he had just heard from Thranduil. It was the first time he had heard the blond King admitting he needed someone. And it shocked him much to hear he had needed him. Him. He had always thought Thranduil to be the most independent of them. And, actually, he had been so wrong. Listening to the Sindarin elf, he realized that he had never really known him; he had never sought further than Thranduil had been willing to show. He tried to suppress the wave of guilt that arisen in his heart. The time for questions had passed and now, it was time to listen to what he had never suspected.   
  
"You needed me?"   
  
His voice betrayed his surprise and Thranduil smiled softly at the question. He plunged his blue eyes in the gray ones staring at him. He tried to make the Lord of Imladris understand what he had never tried to say. And he found it difficult. But it was needed. He needed that confession.   
  
"Yes, I needed you ..."   
  
He paused for a brief moment to give the Half-Elf a moment to acknowledge the avowal, then he followed, words coming more easily once the initial admission made, "I needed someone to lean on, someone to relieve myself from the burden my father had put on my shoulders… I was a prince… I was not supposed ever to be free. I was bound to my duty as I had always been since my birth"   
  
The Loremaster listened silently at the words uttered by the King, as if discovering for the first time the elf sitting in front of him. And, somewhere, it was the case. He had no time to ponder what Thranduil was saying, as the words flowed. He only noticed the bitter tone flaring in his voice when he said, "I had no friends, only people watching my every step. Do you know what I saw the first time we were introduced, Elrond? I saw freedom. The freedom I never had and I always dreamt of. Being with you was somehow being you, forgetting the chains that had always bound my feet. My father never bore that, that's why he never accepted you…"  
  
Then, he stopped and what was supposed to be a slight smile and was indeed a scowl distorted briefly his features, as he completed his speech. No words were added and the blond King of Mirkwood looked at Elrond, trying to discern his reaction, but seeing none, as the Loremaster's face was an unreadable mask. Feeling that a kind of reply was awaited, Elrond told hastily not really knowing what to say, as too many thoughts were jostling in his head, "I thought he never liked me because I had grown up at Gil-Galad's court…"  
  
Thranduil smiled inwardly at the memory of the rage of his father when he had learnt from his councillors that his son had befriended the Half-Elf living at the High King's court. He had not been there, as he had refused to go back to Greenwood with the party he had been supposed to lead as an ambassador of his father. One of the numerous secretaries working in the library, who had some sympathy for the lonely elf he had been, had been present and had told him that the walls of the Great Hall had resounded with the cries of Oropher. It was no lie to say that Elrond's belonging to Gil-Galad's court had not eased his father's wrath, "It's also true… Father had had no affection for Gil-Galad…" Then he added with a hint of challenge in his voice: "Just as I had. But not for the same reasons…"  
  
The raven-haired elf's caught well the underlying tease in the other's voice. Thranduil's tone seemed to invite him to ask the question he had ever asked without ever getting an answer. But this time, Elrond understood that he would have at least this answer. With a slight shake of his head that made some of his strands shine in the daylight, he told, "Reasons I never understood…"  
  
A soft chuckle welcomed his remark and Thranduil brought once more his glass to his lips before explaining slowly, a smile in his voice, "Reasons you never wanted to understand. For you to understand, you would have had to see many other things you had not even noticed… But that's not important, isn't it?" Then, he became serious again: "I never really hated your High King… I never stood his presence next to you."  
  
Seeing the frown adorning Elrond's usually smooth brow, Thranduil understood he had still a lot to explain. Putting carefully his glass down and stroking slightly the soft velvet of the fabric covering his knee, he followed, "Because I knew the day you would have him, you would leave me. Because you would not need me anymore… And I needed you to need me. Because if you did not need me, you would leave and I would go back to my chains… "   
  
A nervous chuckle escaped the King's lips that he covered hastily with two fingers, looking down before crossing again Elrond's bemused gaze. He added awkwardly, "I am laughing, but that is not humorous…"  
  
Elrond tried to suppress the smile coming to his lips when he saw the faint contrite stare he was given. He closed briefly his eyes-lids to clear his mind. He recalled laughter arising in melodious notes, songs sung in a golden sunset, eyes speaking of love and brotherhood. He remembered joyous days spent in the simple company of the other, painful confessions made in the secret of the night, under the watchful gaze of Ithil. He remembered the peace in his heart and his mind when they were together. Slowly, he opened his eyes again, resting his gaze on the thoughtful figure sitting close to him. The Lord of Imladris stretched his hand to reach his glass, but did not take it. He put a long and delicate finger in the edge of the crystal container and drew circles without ever breaking contact, eliciting a piercing whiz. Then, he acknowledged, "I never saw it like that."  
  
Thranduil smiled softly at the admission that looked like an apology. But he did not need an apology. Time for such things had passed for many years. Feeling his limbs becoming stiff, he got up and took some steps in the office before leaning on the wall facing the other elf, his arms crossed on his chest. Plunging his gaze in Elrond's, he said, his voice soft and somewhat tender, "No, you did not and you still do not. Because, somewhere, you are an innocent that seeks goodness in each of us. We never knew each other, we were too eager to see in the other what we wanted to see. You needed someone to escape the horror of your brother's death. You needed someone to be foolish and inconsistent, someone who could make you feel alive. I was there and I needed someone who could make me feel alive…"  
  
Elrond shook his head more violently, refusing to hear more and interrupting the King of Mirkwood. His voice held all the denial he was feeling and resounded strongly in the room, covering Thranduil's softer voice, "I never used you!"  
  
The Sindarin elf's eyes narrowed slightly and he showed no sign of anger as he declared blatantly, trying to soothe the distressed Lord of Imladris, "But we used each others…"  
  
The raven-haired elf's hand that was rubbing absently his left temple fall heavily on the table with a thud as he insisted stubbornly, accompanying his words with quick little shaking of his head, "I can't accept your vision …"  
  
A smile appeared on Thranduil's features as he watched the Loremaster's refusal. He knew this would happen. Elrond was not so much different than millennia ago. He levelled his blue gaze and stared at the pure whiteness of the floor, then, without looking down, he admitted with an undeniable undertone of disappointment in his voice, "I knew you wouldn't. It is not like you. It is not the kind of things you would do consciously."  
  
Then, his gaze fell again on the bemused Lord of Imladris that was looking exhausted and he smiled once more at the strange picture both should be forming, so different than their usual arguments and certitudes. He was aware they both would look weary and exhausted, absolutely not regal nor confident. Such a good image of the dignified rulers they were…  
  
"No wonder you hate me if that is the image you have of me…"  
  
All trace of smile disappeared from his face as he heard the bitter tone of Elrond's voice when he spoke again. And Thranduil realized that some things remained to be explained. He did not know how to begin with. Words had come easily. Until now. Now he was at loss for words. The King of Mirkwood approached the wooden table and leaned over it on both his hands, catching Elrond's full attention. He swallowed quite difficultly as their gaze lasted, opening their mind to each other, sharing their weaknesses and their fears, but also their hopes, "I do not hate you. I never hated you…"  
  
Thranduil made sure to speak slowly and to give all the needed strength to his words. He told the truth. He had never hated Elrond. But how much he had hated himself! He dampened his lips before following, "Quite the contrary, indeed…" A painful chuckle escaped his lips and he straightened himself, avoiding Elrond's gaze, not able to face the Half-Elf. "I will tell you something in confidence, Peredhel. It is something I can tell you now because… Well, I don't know why… Maybe because I have never told so much and this is the last thing that remained to be told. I have suffered a lot when you left…"  
  
Once more, Elrond interrupted him, not caring anymore of the official decorum. In that office, they were not the lord of Imladris and the King of Mirkwood anymore, but Elrond and Thranduil. He did not care of the tears that might be heard in his voice. Masks had fallen and neither of them was ready to put them back. His voice went louder as one goes along his words, "I did not left… You told me to leave, to go with Gil-Galad in that campaign. You told me never to come back to you. You told me you could not bear my presence anymore…"  
  
The golden-haired being took some times to ponder the other's speech, remembering one of his most painful memories, one of the most difficult things he had needed to do. But sometimes, even unpleasant things needed to be done and it took all the courage of the one who would achieve them. Trying to steady his voice and to prevent it from quivering, he explained,   
"Because it was over. You know, in the end, it was not friendship anymore…" He took a large intake of breath before following, avoiding the raven-haired elf's gaze as if afraid of what he might have found in it, "I was in love with you and I was not even aware of it. I was dependant on you. And I could not tell you because I would have made you flee as you were striving for freedom".   
  
The blond King moved away from the table, willing to regain his calm and his composure, not able to look Elrond in the eyes again, wanting to go the furthest away from the scrutiny he felt on him. He stopped in the middle of the office, unaware of him standing in a ray of light that made his mane blaze. When he found his voice again, it was neutral and impersonal, as it was the only way for him to keep on that conversation, "I could not trust you with my confidences anymore, then love became despair and the more I despaired the more I pushed you toward him until the day I understood you did not need me anymore. You had him… I was infatuated with the image I had of you and the image you sent of me… It was not the sweet passionate love I shared with Menelwe. It was something painful and always dissatisfied… And I could not bear to see us drift apart bit by bit… I could not bear to see the slow death of that 'us', do you understand?"   
  
Turning his back to Elrond, Thranduil was not able to see the pained expression on the Half-Elf's features as he listened to that difficult confession. The Lord of Imladris was no fool and understood how much it must have cost to the Sindarin King. But most of all, he cursed himself for not seeing that, for not having tried to further understand his friend. Unaware of the raven-haired elf's inner turmoil, the golden-haired being spoke again after a brief silence filled with emotions, "You used to tell me I was somewhat extreme. I knew it was over and I preferred to put a swift end of it, rather to witness our agony. I preferred to go back to my Kingdom and go back to my former existence, to that life I never wished to have. I never wanted to be King, I would have been happy to become a simple warrior. And somehow that was what I was with you…"  
  
There, he turned toward Elrond and crossed his gaze. It took all his strength not to avoid those piercing gray eyes, but he managed to hold the stare, when he added, sounding exhausted and infinitely saddened, "A simple elf. Not Thranduil Oropherion, Prince of Mirkwood, heir to the throne… Simply Thranduil."  
  
Seeing that look upon Thranduil's features called Elrond back to reality. Knowing well the futility of words now, realizing that he had been told a deep truth and given all the answers he had sought, he tried nevertheless, "You speak of nonsense…We were young and youth is brash and unforgiving, youth is extreme. Youth is only love and hate. I have seen my sons. They love and they hate with the same intensity, with the same passion… When you are young, even friendship is impassioned…"  
  
But he stopped when he saw the depths of Thranduil's eyes, abandoning any idea to deny the truth of his words, letting remorse and regret crash upon his heart for what could have been if he had been a little bit less selfish. A sorrowful silence fell on them, as Thranduil reached his chair and sat once more and lasted for long unending seconds until the blond elf spoke again, "Yes, it's true… Everything is said there: what we had lived is inscribed in the foolishness of the youth…"  
  
But, strangely, even if Thranduil only recognized the truth of his words, Elrond did not feel satisfied, as if more needed to be said. But he knew, without even asking, they would never have this conversation again. But, he could not prevent himself to voice his lack of satisfaction, as he added, looking at Thranduil with eyes prying not to leave him that taste of incompletion,   
"Maybe…"  
  
A very soft chuckle left the King of Mirkwood's lips and he smiled, caressing absently the wood of the table in a place it was not covered by a map. Feeling the need and the request hidden in that lone word, understanding the questions he had arisen, he told, "Yes. You know every time I saw you after each of us took his own path, I cannot help feeling bad because I reproached you for end of my dreams… My dream of freedom. Our dream of freedom. But now, Menelwe is dead for five centuries and I have changed. It is difficult to explain, but I have changed…"   
  
Heedlessly, his hand dragged slightly a map to him and his glass, resting on the parchment, stumbled, threatening to spill his content on the rare scrolls. Nimbly, he quickly grabbed the delicate object before the catastrophe. Smiling for avoiding it and casting an apologetic glance toward Elrond, he followed, "Before, I ruled my kingdom because of my people, now I ruled it because I do not want anybody to know the same fate as hers… Even if I know it is impossible I would like to make of Mirkwood a place of peace, and heaven…"  
  
The last words awakened something in Elrond and an image slid in front of his eyes. Image of an evening with his best friend, perched in a tree towering the forest of Mirkwood, admiring the beautiful view and rebuilding the world, speaking of a future they thought they would spend together. But fate had decided otherwise. Closing his eyes, the Loremaster ended with Thranduil, "… on that side of the sea."  
  
Two identical smiles spread on their faces as they recalled the promises that night had seemed to hold in the sparkling of the stars.   
  
"You have not forgotten..." wondered the King of Mirkwood, plunging his azure eyes in his former friend's gray ones.  
  
His surprise didn't go unnoticed by Elrond who exclaimed softly, "How could I? When I built Imladris, it was also for you, for us…"  
  
It was true. Every moment passed with that elf was graved in his mind, happy memories as well as sadder ones. Even if today he had been led to reconsider his judgement on the past. And he knew in his heart, it was the same for Thranduil. For some other seconds, neither of them spoke, caught in the remembrance of their life. Then, the Sindarin elf's voice resounded again and hearing its tone, Elrond understood that Thranduil was again at peace with himself.   
  
"A page has turned today, Peredhel…"  
  
With a slight nod of his head, the Lord of Imladris acknowledged the truth of those words. Today was the end of an era, the end of something that had begun a long time ago. But, yet, in his heart, some hope still lingered.   
  
"Can we write another one, Thranduil? Not everything was bad in what we shared…"  
  
Thranduil smiled when he heard the request. Elrond would never change. The Half-Elf would never give up and always see the best in the others. Trying not to sound too harsh, he replied:  
  
"I don't know if I have the courage to do so, Elrond. My people need me. My sons need me. Shadow is growing and with every passing day, our strength is decreasing…"  
  
Remembering the first goal of that meeting, The Lord of Imladris added quickly, not wanting his former friend and his new ally to sink into the despair, willing to give him hopes and strength, "Imladris will help Mirkwood…"  
  
"And for this I will be forever grateful, Elrond…"  
  
The Loremaster knew he would not get more. Thranduil had never been the kind of elf to not feel awkwardness at being indebted to anyone. But he felt the sincerity behind those words and he satisfied himself with it. Smiling, he indulged the temptation to tease the golden-haired King and said, knowing well what kind of answer he would elicit from him, "I always keep my promises…"  
  
Feeling that his former friend only wanted to needle him, Thranduil did not take umbrage of that declaration. Instead, he replied, a ghost of a smile in his voice, "Not always, Elrond…"  
  
But that time, Elrond preferred remaining silent. And for the first time for many millennia, a comfortable silence fell upon them.

**The End**

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_"Oh, yes, I believe in friends. I believe we need them. But if one day you find that you just can't trust them anymore… Well, what then? What then?"  
  
_From The Shallow Grave

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Coming soon:   
**Behind the Shadows of the Soul: Mirkwood**

_A troop from Imladris is sent to Mirkwood to help Thranduil's people in their fight against Shadow. Among the warriors are Elladan and Elrohir. What will happen when the younger twin meet Legolas again?_


End file.
